Somewhere under the quiet hum of the evening, time curls like smoke rising from a forgotten candle. Pages rustle; stories untold reclaim their whispers. Have you ever considered the way words linger in shadows?
It's Tuesday—again—a stretch of days melted into the next as coffee spills, drips into puddles of mundane thinking. They say the way you stir your drink reveals your secrets; do you swirl or do you leave it unbothered?
Someone maybe said it around dinner tables, in the creases of everyday life—it's all crayon scribbles in the margins, isn't it?
Who left their umbrella? I remember how the air felt thick, yet Sylvie used to say the rain captures sorrow...
«Echoes of silence form our quiet truth». A phrase found in discarded places—between couch cushions, the soft thud of a book hitting the floor, forgotten poetry. Perhaps, if you unearth it, you may find what you leave behind.
What fleeting outlines of yesterday, witness to the multitude of breaths, stir in this dim-lit realm? Catch them before they drift like feathers on a dark ocean.